by Marata Eros
He waves a palm at the comment like he’s getting rid of a bad smell. “Fuck it. It's funny, and it ain't never gonna be not funny.” Noose smirks and begins slapping the front of his cut, clearly searching for his hardtop box of smokes.
“This is our infirmary,” I remind him in my blandest voice.
“Fucking kill me now if I can't, by Christ, have some nicotine.”
“Pussy,” I say, as calm as a windless day.
Noose rolls his eyes. Discovering a semi-crushed pack, he manages to pluck an unbroken cig out and lights it up, cupping his hand around the tip of the cigarette. The end flares then dies to a simmering orange-red coal.
“Who is this little girl that took out Noose the Moose's knee?” Doc asks quietly.
“A woman that's gonna talk then die,” Storm says.
“Oh,” Doc says, rocking back on his heels. “I'm not for all females, but I don't like murdering them. I am a doctor—was.”
We don't talk about his use of past tense.
I focus instead on Storm spewing our plans in front of somebody not directly involved.
Doc's a retired brother. Can't ride that well. Even a trike isn't a solution. But he's part of the club. Saved a ton of lives. That's what counts—loyalty.
Sometimes service to the club comes in different flavors.
I clap Doc on the back. “This particular female deals in kiddie peddling.”
Doc's features arrange themselves into lines of disgust. His lip lifts, the bridge of his nose scrunching into a ripple of flesh. “That's fucking disgusting.” He shakes his head. “Guess the broad deserves what's coming.” He sounds resigned.
“Definitely.” Storm chops the word off like he’s got an ax.
Doc's exhale is slow and thoughtful as he looks at Noose's injured leg. “This kind of damage I've seen some in my time.”
One of Noose's smoke rings floats between Doc and me. With an irritated swipe, my hand breaks the perfect circle, sending the cloud of smoke floating to the ceiling.
“Done by who?” I ask, trying to gain a better sense of what kind of woman we're dealing with.
“Assassins, pros, martial arts folks. Military.” His eyes shift to Noose then me.
Noose and I look at each other through the haze of his smoke. But he's got his fix, and he's stopped bitching. Thank God.
“Okay so the woman gives kids to the creeps to abuse,” Storm says. “She's obviously not defenseless.” Storm zeros in on Noose. “And no offense, Noose, but she handed you your big ass.”
Noose's eyes hood. “I'm gonna kill him.”
“Not yet,” I say.
“Anyways,” Storm continues, “they probably gave her training and shit. Just in case a deal goes bad. Enough for her to get outta a tight spot.”
“She didn't engage me,” Noose says with slow consideration. “Arlington defended then took off. She's smart as fuck.”
Yes, she is.
Candice Arlington used the element of surprise well. But no matter how well she was trained, if a man matched her skills and outweighed her, she would be out of her league. Essentially, she'd get her ass kicked.
“So we bring in Wring. We have an inkling of what skills Arlington's got. Can't surprise us a second time.” I raise an eyebrow. “Is it fair to say her skills extend to weaponry?” I ask Noose.
He grunts. “Yeah, fucking affirmative on that, Vince.”
Noose will sometimes slip and say my real name. He knows more about me than I do. Keeps it all to himself too. Really appreciate his radio silence. He knows about Colleen. How she died. What she looked like. A lot of the brothers patched in after she passed. Noose hasn't said a word about my old lady to anyone.
Never could knock her up. Sudden grief seizes me like a tackle from a linebacker. Unexpected and fucking unwelcome.
Would have been a bit of joy in my fucked-up life if I could still have a part of her on this earth. But all I got is memories.
The details of her face are soft in my mind. Not sharp like they used to be.
Despair doesn't rule me, but I find it gives me orders when I least expect it.
I don't follow those commands. Wouldn't be standing here if I'd listened to the small voice nagging at me to end my shit after Colleen left me.
Forcing my head back in the game, I answer, “Then we have to assume she can handle guns, knives—”
“She's got the hand-to-hand down pretty slick,” Storm says.
Noose's brow ridge dumps over eyes gone pewter with irritation. “You're not gonna let that go, are ya?” He shoots smoke in Storm's direction.
“Probably not,” Storm admits. “Perfect blackmail potential.”
“Dick.”
Storm grins.
“Boys,” I warn. Unbelievable that I might have ever been that young. That brash. That dumb.
Probably was, though.
I give Doc my attention. “So he stays here overnight.”
Doc nods. “Yeah, this is drive-by medicine at its finest. My buddy came in here and fixed him fast. Now it's up to Noose.”
He lifts a vial. “Rose can plug him in the ass with this stuff. If he gets high enough, he'll forget that his kneecap was torn around.” Doc lifts a shoulder. “If you'd brought him in later, it'd be a different story. Major reattachment issues.”
“Instead of teeny-tiny ones,” Noose comments in a dry voice, holding his index and thumb a millimeter away from touching. He snickers.
We look at him. He seems a little high right now.
“Do you know where Arlington lives?” It's the most important question of the hour, and I want the answer before he gets juiced with more drugs.
“Yeah.” Noose's eyes tighten, and he clenches his jaw. “But it's probably just a fake addy. No actual physical.”
“Come on, Noose—this isn't like you!” Storm blurts. “You would've had a contingency.”
I raise my eyebrows. As do Doc and Noose.
“I'm not a fucking clown,” Storm says loudly, clearly insulted. “I do understand the English language, ya know.”
I hadn't actually understood.
“Listen, this broad isn't going to have a tile hung outside her door saying ʻcome and get me,ʼ” Noose says in a voice that overrides Storm's. “She doesn't want to be found. She's doing something really fucking illegal—disgusting. I don't got the words for her brand of shit.”
A lecture from Noose.
“Go to the addy. See what you can find. We lost the bitch because of the crowd of civvies.”
“Got a look at her car, though,” Storm says.
“Yeah, some piece of shit tin can,” Noose mutters. “No plates? Just car description?” He squints through the smoke from his third cigarette.
Storm nods. “Neutral color, some kind of beige that the fancy-pants car makers are gonna call ʻchampagneʼ or some shit.”
“So anybody's car color. Nondescript. Swell.” I cup my chin, dipping my head down. I’ve got one man down and a flesh-peddling bitch off with the kid to parts unknown.
My head jerks up as the door bursts open, and Wring strolls in, eyes wild. They land on Noose. “Fuck me!” he says, gaze traveling up Noose’s leg.
Noose raises a fist, and they bump. “What the fuck, Noose? Shannon just talked to Rose. Said somebody wasted your knee.”
“Humpty Dumpty's men put him back together again.” Doc chortles, rocking back on his heels.
Noose shoots him a hard look, dull, ruddy color bleeding at his nape and climbing his neck.
Storm is conspicuously silent. Unbelievable.
Doc and I exchange a look.
“What?” Wring's attention shifts between us, eyes narrowing at our not-so-subtle exchange.
“Lost the bitch. She pulled a fast one, got too many eyes on us. We couldn't follow her. Don't have dick.” Storm explains machine-gun style, disappointment clear on every angle of his face. “I wanted to save the fucking kid.”
We all did. And every kid after that one.
&n
bsp; Wring grins to beat the band.
“What's so fuckinʼ funny?” Noose growls. “Doc”—he whips his head in Doc's direction—“shoot me up with some joy juice. I'm pissing vinegar.”
Doc issues a soft snort and walks over to Noose's IV. He injects something into a small tube, and Noose flops back. “I can take bad news better this way. In pain, and all of the revelations bad—and my fucking fault—makes me want to kick in teeth.” His eyes shoot to Wring, waving his palm around in an irritated figure eight. “Well, fucker?”
“I came late to the party.”
Noose frowns. “We were three musketeers on this one, brother.”
“Snare overrode Viper.” Wring inclines his chin at me.
Fucking Snare. Always worried about security. Of course, that is what makes him such a damn good sergeant at arms.
Wring sweeps his heavy arms wide from his torso. “Saw you get your ass kicked. Stayed back.”
The flush on Noose's cheeks screams back to life again. “Marvelous, dickhead. Make. Your. Point.”
“Followed the bitch.”
Every man in the room comes to attention as if the President of the United States just walked into the room.
“No shit?”
Wring nods happily. “Just a total coincidence.”
Not much of a believer in those.
“So you let me suffer, thinking you didn't know a girl handed my ass to me.”
Wring nods, still grinning. “All worked out, though. While you were getting the beat-down, I waited until Cupcake came to the parking lot with the kid. Followed her.”
“She didn't notice your bike?” Noose asks, suspicion thick in his voice. “Because she's not a regular girl. She's sharp. Aware.”
“No shit,” Storm agrees.
“Nope, used the POS club truck.”
“Hell, that thing sure earns its weight,” Storm mutters.
I agree. Had it since I was a teenager. My first vehicle. Battery sucks, but I keep the engine tuned myself.
Fucking guys in their twenties couldn't find their ass with both hands. And forget something rudimentary like changing oil. Might as well tell them to perform their own sex change.
“Anyway,” Wrings says, running a hand over his flattop of platinum hair, “she lives on the border of Kent and Renton.”
“Addy?” Noose asks, slurring the word.
Wring's nearly invisible eyebrow lifts. He recites the address.
Noose sits up straighter, trying to shake off the drugs. “That's not the one I got.”
“Yeah, bitch changed out her car plates too,” Wring announces.
We all look at each other. I'm starting to see Storm's interest in torturing her at the moment.
“Probably got a stash of those too. Enabling twat.” Noose flops back down after that pronouncement, launching more smoke rings at the ceiling.
Wring's eyes peg us. “She has the kid with her. Got to figure that out. Can't go charging in there and leave some kindergartner alone in a house. Could be Arlington's got company coming.” He lifts his broad shoulders. “Or she arranged another handoff.”
What a clusterfuck. “We can't let that happen,” I say. “One of us has to take the kid, keep him somewhere safe until we get her to talk.”
Everyone looks at me.
“No way. Not taking the kid.”
Talk about having zero skills. Fuck me.
“We all have kids, Viper,” Wring says reasonably. “You don't. You can play daddy.”
I sort of want to kill Wring.
Doesn't help that all of them are grinning like assholes. Storm doesn't even have a place yet; he mainly crashes at the club all the time.
Club antics aren't for kids.
Doc's an old coot.
Noose is out and has twins under one year old. Wring's right.
And I hate it.
If Colleen were still alive, she would volunteer to take care of the kid until this mess got ironed out in a nanosecond.
But she's not, is she? It's just me.
And maybe that's not enough.
Chapter 6
Candice
Pulling up to my townhome, I roll the car into the shared driveway. The garage faces a slightly sloping driveway that leads to a well-kept ’90s facade, complete with angular pitches and funky geometric-shaped windows beneath the eaves. I depress the button for the garage door opener, and as the massive door rolls up, I inch the Scion forward up the driveway and into my garage.
I relish the moment of complete anonymity. No one knows where I live. Every time a lease is up, I move. That’s the price I pay for peace of mind. I’m always aiming for places that have six-month leases. That way, I can dust my feet off and rotate to the next locale. Sometimes addresses overlap, and I have to move out before the lease is up. It happens.
I don't pick up the tab, but the cost is high nevertheless.
Emotionally, since I haven't owned a home in my entire life, it's taken a toll. Just a vagabond, I go where the FBI wants me to be. Period.
I gave up everything women want—or are supposed to want. A husband, kids… Hell, I can't even bake a cake.
At one time, my compliance was necessary. Now I could choose. But I've gotten so accustomed to this life, why change it?
What life?
It's not like I've got a man. I don't even have any prospects.
I have Puck. And I haven't even seen him since we both began this detail from opposite sides of the fence.
I turn off the engine and put the key inside the console.
“Is this my new house now, Miss Candi?” Calem asks.
I click the button to close the garage door, and as it slowly lowers, I watch its progress in my rearview mirror.
“For now,” I answer as the garage door taps the cement floor. Then I get out of the car and walk around to open the passenger-side door.
Calem exits cautiously, looking around. “Where do I sleep?”
There's no reproach inside his small voice. Only a question.
I close my eyes. He thinks his home might be in a garage.
I answer slowly, “I have an extra room for you to be in.” I try on a smile. It feels forced. Too tight.
Calem gives me a similar one in return.
God. What a mess.
He's just getting along. Like he's always had to.
First things first. “Let's go inside.” I start walking toward the door, which leads directly into the house. It has one of those convenient laundry-slash-mudroom transition areas.
Any house with doors that access the garage and are not integral to entry and exit to the main house are nixed from my consideration.
I would never give intruders an additional access point to where I sleep and eat.
After I’ve tapped my keyed entry sequence onto the numbered pad, it makes a low chime, disengaging the deadbolt. I open the door, swinging it wide until the solid wood is against the wall. No one stands behind the door. My senses take in everything as Calem stands slightly behind me, following my lead. It's obviously not his first rodeo where there's potential for danger.
Firstly, I use my enigmatic women's intuition, which, believe it or not, is a real thing.
I sense nothing. Smell nothing. See nothing.
Removing my gun from the handbag that's made for it, I hold it loosely at my right side, leaving Calem to my left.
“Miss Candi?” Calem whispers, voice trembling, his little hand hooked to the bottom of my bolero-style jacket.
“It's okay,” I say back just as quietly.
Lifting the Glock 42, I sweep the weapon in front of my body. The barrel follows my eyes as they track all points of entry.
The ticking of the clock is loud in the otherwise-silent house.
After five seconds pass, I count off another ten. Frozen breath slides out of my starved lungs, and the tension singing between my shoulder blades recedes like a riptide.
Clicking the safety back on, I slide the gun inside my handbag, ti
ght against the pocket where the mace resides.
“Are we okay?”
I sink to my haunches, tucking my flared skirt underneath my butt. I move his hair back again.
“Yes.”
Calem's narrow shoulders drop slightly with the news. “I'm hungry,” he announces.
That, I can figure out, but first—Puck.
“I'll phone my brother and let him know what's happened.” I cock a brow. “Why don't you see what's in the fridge?”
I turn with a smile, knowing exactly what he'll find. My sweet tooth will become all-too-apparent in about five point zero seconds.
My landline phone on top of the end table is my archaic nod to the popular phones of the 1980s that are made of clear acrylic. The guts light up when the unit rings. I grab the receiver and punch in the memorized numbered code for my voicemail.
My phone doesn't ring at all. Except for when I get calls from one person. That concession was made long ago.
It's an out-of-date system as compared to the broad swath of technology the feds possess, but sometimes, backward things such as this are actually more secure. Counter intuitive but true.
I listen to the robotic voicemail voice as faint sounds of rummaging reach me from the general direction of the kitchen.
Missed call. Number unknown. Puck.
He's worried. I know this. I didn't phone him from a new burner because—surprise, surprise—things didn't go according to plan. Because I’m so anal, Puck has to be frantic about the missed time loop of communication.
“Miss Candi!”
I turn, semi-startled. I'd forgotten for a moment that I'm not alone. Smiling, I take note of the chocolate milk carton, Twinkies, and a huge canister of cashews scattered across the small peninsula countertop that separates my living room from the kitchen.
Food of champions.
I figure mid-life will challenge my slimness any second, but for now, some fluke of genetics, or just plain luck, keeps me thin despite all my efforts to mess it up. That and devotion for keeping a defensible body.
“Yes,” I answer.
“You've got gooood food.” Calem's eyes run over the things he could manage to get out of the fridge.
I walk over there, setting my handbag on the top of the fridge—somewhere high and difficult to reach, although Calem and I have already had the discussion on guns. Mine. Others. How they're never to be touched unless you're willing to use them. It had been more of a drive-by lesson than a deep one. Pretty hard to fit in discussions of weaponry during finger-painting time.
